


Ghost Boy

by surroundedxhounded



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Drugs, Gay, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Sex, tw, twenty one pilots - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:26:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surroundedxhounded/pseuds/surroundedxhounded
Summary: Tyler needs money. Wonder how he gets it?**Loosely based off of Mysterious Skin directed by Gregg Araki.
Relationships: Josh Dun/Tyler Joseph
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. Leave Me Alone, just Leave Me Alone

Tyler sat back, begrudgingly, sinking into the couch he bought on craigslist for a discounted price of $45. His shoddy apartment walls were yellow from smoke; so were his curtains, blinds, windows... Tyler's addictive personality could be held accountable for a lot of different things.

He fiddled the cigarette in between his index finger and middle finger. He found the cigarette in an ashtray outside his last client's motel room, unknowingly grabbing a few butts and shoving them in his shirt pocket before making a beeline to his, for lack of a better term, shitty '96 Volvo 850. He fumbled with the keys, sweat dripping from his brow as he looked up to the window of the room his just exited. He couldn't get the door open fast enough. Tyler had about four seconds before the man he just scammed would run after him, beat the hell out of him, and take not only the cash he stole from him, but his clients from the past five days. The Volvo door flung open and in perfect synchronicity, as did the client's motel room door. He was a burly man, about 6'2 who was balding. He wasn't old; just curious and full of hard-earned money. He practically drifted down the flight of stairs as Tyler started the engine and floored it out of the parking lot. He looked into the rearview mirror, the man standing where his car once was, practically red in the face.

Tyler, upon stepping into his apartment, threw off his shirt and threw it god-knows-where. The thump of the cigarette butts rang a little too loud in Tyler's ears as they spilled out of his shirt pocket and onto the linoleum floor. A sweet, sweet joint filled with nicotine. Tyler grabbed a lighter from his jeans pocket, holding tightly while he leaned over to grab a cigarette. He had one or two puffs left, three at the most. He lit the butt, closed his eyes and sucked in the warmth. His body felt full, a craving satisfied. He couldn't help but smile. It's the little things, he thought. Tyler reached into his other pocket. His heart pounded in his head as his fingers gripped the cash. He pulled it out and a soft, audible moan escaped his lips. Tyler ran his tongue along his teeth, the after taste of the cigarette burning the back of his throat. He startled unraveling the wad of cash he stole. How much money he stole, he had no idea. But he would find out.

Tyler found odd jobs here and there; his anxiety would be too much for him and he would get fired. At just about every job he was lucky enough to land, he'd survive a month or two before getting called into his boss's office. After the 3rd time he was let go, he anticipated the hit. After the 6th, he got tired of the hit. He continued applying to places as a dishwasher or a janitor, jobs that would help him pay the bills, or at least get out of his dusty little town in New Mexico. 

Tyler went to a party the night he got fired for the 7th time. He had too many shots of tequila and held onto a bottle of Jameson for too long. By the end of the night, Tyler had met a couple of nice girls who were about as drunk as him. They lead him into a bedroom, threw him on the bed and started climbing onto him. Tyler felt wandering hands on his stomach, lower and lower. Anticipation bubbled in his veins. One of the girls pulled a tiny jar out of her back pocket, dumped the contents on the back of her hand and held it up to Tyler's nose. His instinct was to sniff. He snorted the substance. It burned for a moment, like accidentally breathing in saltwater. The girl with blonde hair started lowering her head beneath Tyler's torso. As if on cue, his eyes started watering and months of emotions seemingly poured out into the room that was once filled with lust. The girl with black hair laid his head on her legs, caressing his hair as he sobbed. The blonde girl laid on his shoulder and listened to his problems. He just wanted to be listened to.

Even in a drunken haze, Tyler still had the ability to fuck a good thing up. The girls got tired of his ramblings and moved on, putting their clothes on as if he held a gun to their heads. He wasn't hard anymore, just dazed and sleepy. He didn't protest in them leaving. The room became quiet as soon as the door shut and he was left in his thoughts.

His head swimming around in itself, the bass from the party pounded through his spine. His knuckles curled around the sheets, trying to make sure he was still alive, he wasn't sure if he'd ever been this drunk in his life. Who's room was this? He was too weak to lift his head up, so his eyes drifted and scanned his environment. The room was dark; grim, almost. There was no color on the wall besides decorations in black in white. There were no pictures on the dresser, bedside table. This room remained anonymous. It took Tyler two minutes to stop caring. He could only stare at the ceiling, reminding himself of the emptiness he felt before the coke kicked in.


	2. I'm Growin So Tired of This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW- sex, mentions of rape, drugs, homophobia
> 
> Highly recommend listening to Lose My Mind by Lil Peep on repeat.

"I can get through this."

$350. Tyler took out $100 from the pile and put the rest in a shoebox he hid in a vent. He gets unusually smug after a good amount of money rolls in, bragging to the few friends that he has. They usually roll their eyes or remind him how terrible of a person he is. Tyler doesn't care; as long as he can pay rent, he has no one telling him what to do, where to go, he can do drugs when he wants to. Tyler wasn't meant to be tied down. He's always been a free spirit, often going against societal standards.

After Tyler graduated high school, he followed his parents wishes in enrolling in college. The first semester was hard on him. He fell into a depression, not knowing what to do with his life. All of his friends left the state and he was left alone. Eventually, he found himself in the wrong crowd, learned how to shoot a gun, tried shrooms for the first time and met a pretty girl: in that order. They were inseparable for the better part of a year. He started ditching class, and eventually flunked out of community college. His parents didn't find out until one morning when they checked on him and he was gone. His dressers were cleared out, closet empty, and most of his possessions were missing. He didn't leave a note. He was just a ghost in the wind, never to be seen again.

He didn't worry about his parents. His siblings would do better than him, hopefully not follow in his footsteps, and hopefully they had better common sense.

Tyler flunked out after his second semester of college. He was home for the first half of the summer. Him and his girlfriend were smoking weed on the roof of her parents house one evening when she told him she met a guy at her job where she waitressed, and that he could get her a better quality of life.

"I went on my break and he told me I could make triple or quadruple what I make now. He has a place for me in New Mexico."

"What about me?"

"I asked him about you. He said you can come too, you can make just as much as well. He sounded legit. But I agreed to him when he told me I'd never have to wait another table ever again."

"When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow night."

Tyler just nodded. He wasn't high enough to agree, but he was high enough not to disagree. He could get out of his shit hometown. He didn't know if it was a pyramid scheme or a gang, but he'd be making more money than he was at the moment, which was $0. He didn't take long to make his mind up.

The next night, he shoved his things into a backpack and a duffel bag. He escaped through his bedroom window and threw his things carelessly into the backseat of his car. The night summer breeze dried the sweat forming in his brow and ultimately calmed his nerves. The moon was positioned just right, illuminating the streets where street lights lacked. The windows down, he felt infinite. Tyler could not think of a better moment in his life where everything just felt... right. He felt good. A cigarette between his teeth, and he would be perfect.

His girlfriend was waiting on her stoop when he arrived. Her long blonde hair bounced in the moonlight, and he couldn't help but stare at her short shorts. She looked like she belonged in a movie, one where the girl runs away from her family and hitchhikes across deserts. She wasted no time jumping in the passenger seat before planting a kiss on her boyfriend's cheek. She put a cigarette in his mouth, as well hers, pulled a lighter from the glove box and smoke filled the car. Tyler couldn't help but smile.

Columbus to Los Lunas, New Mexico was an entire day's drive. They stopped twice to sleep, once is St. Louis and another in Oklahoma City. Los Lunas was just outside Albuquerque, where they stayed at a motel for 17 hours until the guy Tyler's girlfriend mentioned met up with them. He was a bigger guy, with cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. He was also wearing a sports coat, and it gave Tyler an uneasy feeling. His name was Paul. He didn't say much about himself other than his name and where he's from. He was born in Long Island but grew up in a small town outside of Albany. He also has an associates in business. Tyler couldn't help but place his trust in Paul. They drove nearly 1500 miles to be there, and they couldn't just leave.

Paul jumped into his pickup truck and Tyler and his girlfriend hopped into his car, following closely behind him. It was nearly a 30 minute drive to Paul's house. That's where they were staying. It was a small neighborhood, littered with graffiti and actual litter. People were sat on their stoops with fans and lemonade, wondering who the hell was new in town.

The house was quaint, small and beige, not bad looking. Tyler's first thought was that it couldn't be so bad. Paul entered, Tyler and his girlfriend exchanging glances, that look that says 'what the hell did we get ourselves into?' The house reeked of liquor and cigarettes. A shot of whiskey was shoved into Tyler's hands the moment the door closed behind him. It was dark and musty in the living room, heavy rap blaring through speakers on the wall next to him. Men were scattered amongst the place, with a female wearing practically nothing in each of their laps. They were dancing, drunk, high. A mound of cocaine littered the coffee table. Tyler couldn't bring himself to walk any further. His girlfriend didn't seem to mind. A man on the couch practically threw the woman on his lap off of him to greet them.

He piled some coke on his finger and waltzed up to her, holding his hand out, while his girlfriend, ever so slowly, gripped his wrist and sniffed. The look on his face was lust. Tyler shot back the whiskey. It burned his throat, and the man now had coke on his finger for Tyler. He sniffed. His nose itched. He didn't feel jealousy towards the man, however he was unsteady with the thoughts starting to race, he wasn't sure he felt safe.

Tyler and his girlfriend stayed there for two weeks before she made enough money to pay a few months rent. From the time of their arrival to the time she signed her lease, she'd been essentially pimped out by a couple of men. Each day that passed, she grew more weary. Her eyes held a certain sadness, her shoulders carried more weight. She seemed to lighten up once they moved in to the apartment by themselves. Now, they could sleep at night and she felt a little safer next to Tyler. It wasn't much but it kept them away. She had "appointments", where she would get sold by her daddy for the evening. She got a 35% cut. After every night, Tyler would hold her as they sat in silence. Tyler would turn off the TV as soon as the door unlocked, turn to face her, and she would slowly turn around to show an evening's work. Distress, pain, disgust. Emotions riddled her face and the longer they stayed in New Mexico, they seemed to perpetuate.

Tyler and his girlfriend started dealing with their emotions by doing heavier drugs on the regular. Her drug of choice was oxys. His was blow. They often spent their time in a trance-like getaway, sat on the couch with Netflix on quietly in the background as they got high, often times not even speaking. They weren't bonding anymore. They were kind of just existing together now, both oblivious to the pain they felt but at the same so utterly and painfully aware.

Paul showed up to their apartment unannounced one afternoon, catching Tyler off guard, reaching for the gun in the kitchen drawer. He held it behind his back when he opened the door, feeling slightly relieved when it was just her boss. Paul had a proposition, however. He had new clients, made new connections, and said Tyler could start making money for himself. He nearly jumped at the idea, all their money was spent on booze and drugs; their refrigerator held the contents of a ketchup and orange juice.

"He's ready for you tonight."

"He?"

"$3,000."

Tyler took a deep breath. That was a lot of money. He never got the chance to experiment like most of his friends in college, and his girlfriend is his first relationship. He tapped his fingers on the doorknob, biting his lip as if he was waiting for the universe to answer him. He was open minded and nearly excited, even. Tyler nodded. Paul waved for him to follow him. He closed the door behind him as they walked down the stairs to Paul's truck.

Paul took Tyler to the client's house. The man greeted him at the front door, where Paul waved him on and said he would wait. The man wasn't bad looking: he was middle-aged, salt and pepper and obviously had a few bucks to shell out. His house didn't reek of cigarettes nor alcohol, but the decorations on the wall were a little loud; sculptures and paintings took over the area and the room felt crowded despite it being just the two of them. The man poured Tyler a drink, making him feel warmer inside and alleviating his anxiety. The man offered Tyler to take a seat. He made moves.

Tyler felt a pressure in his stomach, like the one with the bad gut feeling. He wasn't comfortable. But $3,000. The weight of the cash felt heavy in his pockets, and it wasn't even with him yet. He had no choice but to accept the advances.

It was the first time Tyler had intercourse that wasn't with a girl. 

The man paid him and kicked him out. Tyler stood on the stoop for a moment, taking a few deep breaths for composure before facing Paul. He felt empty and violated, a feeling that not even xanax could help. Despite being open-minded, he didn't have a bad feeling going into it, initially. The man was forceful, hurtful, and disregarded the safe-word he promised to keep.

Tyler didn't speak to his girlfriend when he returned. He threw the cash on the coffee table and popped a pill.

Over the next two months, Tyler was pavloved into enjoyment. His adrenaline would kick in and he'd convince himself he was okay. He knew how his girlfriend felt. Despite the cash they were raking in, they still hurt. No amount of being crossfaded could suppress it anymore. Tyler eventually viewed it as just another day in the office.

Tyler began taking advantage of those that took advantage of him. Every two dudes or so, they were full of hate. They were homophobes on the outside but in the closet, and the only way they could help themselves was paying for sex. They would take their anger out on Tyler. The first time Tyler stole a watch or a couple hundred more dollars, he realize how easy it was to get away with. He was making close to $2,000 more than what he was getting paid just from pawning whatever item he could get.

After the sixth month, Tyler wasn't just used to it. He looked forward to the next man, and the next. Tyler's girlfriend didn't come home one night. It was the first evening in a month that he didn't have a client, and he rented a movie for her that she'd mentioned she would like to see. He waited for her for three days.

She came home defeated. She was beaten and bruised.

"He almost killed me."

Tyler should have listened. He should have protected her like she wanted. She felt safe with him, and he let her down.

A week later she was found dead in the trunk of a car that had been driven an hour into the desert.

He let her down.

Tyler tipped off the police anonymously about Paul. Four days later, Paul was raided by SWAT and arrested for sex trafficking as well as six other men, where they found a few computers with secret horrible things. They had charges so bad it made Tyler sick to think about.

They never caught her killer, at least not yet, and most days Tyler spent in the dark getting high. He didn't have the energy to turn on the TV or eat, he was rotting away on the couch in the space he once shared with the girl that lead him 2,000 miles from home.


	3. How Do You Fight the Feelin'?

Tyler didn't recognize himself in the mirror.

A diet of blow, xanny and coffee, he looked like a skeleton. A client of his mentioned that he liked them skinny. It made him look 15. Tyler was 21. He shuddered, and those words haunted him.

4 months after his girlfriend's death, Tyler met a man at a house party who offered him $1,000, whom respectively became his client for the night. He took him back to his place and had no other intentions than to hurt him. Tyler tried to pull away once he realized his danger, but the man started punching him, over and over. He slammed his face on the bathroom tile, a gash appearing on his forehead. Tyler laid in his own blood for the better part of two hours, trying to stop being dizzy. The man stared at him, helpless, and called him beautiful; nothing but a sick sadistic pervert. He left him to grab cigarettes, and Tyler unstuck himself from the puddle and clothed himself as fast as he could, running out into the street and taking alleyways to hide himself from the public.

He had no one to call, no knowledge of what neighborhood he was in, nevermind the paranoia he felt.

Tyler stumbled his way back home somehow. The air was dry, whenever the wind picked up it slapped dirt in his face. His forehead burned from the gash, but the blood was dried by then and he was sure he looked like a mess and a half.

Tyler fumbled with his keys to get in the apartment. The fluorescent lightbulb hung over his doorstep swayed with the wind, making the shadows sway along with it. Tyler couldn't help but fixate on the shadow his body made. He took a deep breath, a nauseating feeling coming along. He hadn't had his xanax for the day, and all he needed to do was open the door, but it was all too much. He paused, letting the sickness take over. He hunched over the railing and vomited, really hoping no one was standing below him in any proximity.

He rushed into his apartment, slammed the door and ran to the bathroom. He downed his favorite pill, the thought of it entering his system made him calm enough to not need to throw up again. He slumped against his bathtub, defeated. He didn't even have the energy to look in the mirror; he knew that what he'd see would make him feel worse. His brain pounded against his skull in an effort to make him feel something, so he crawled on his hands and knees out of the bathroom and into his living room.

The xanax started to kick in when he pulled himself onto the couch and laid back slowly, sinking into the rough material such as the substance in his veins; he knew he couldn't keep living like this. He tried to knock any thoughts of his girlfriend away since she passed, she was gone and he couldn't keep blaming himself for it. But he did, anyway. What else is there to do when you're left alone in a city you don't know, selling your body to make rent? He slept until 4 p.m., got fucked up alone for a few hours until he felt hungry, go to a diner, meet a client, got paid, got more fucked up, find a party, don't remember the night and somehow wake up in bed at 4 p.m., rinse, repeat. 

***

Tyler woke up at 8 in the morning. He was surprised to see the sun shine through the blinds from the sliding door, having passed out on the couch. His head felt like the belly of a beast, craving chemicals to get the day started and it didn't feel any better when he had to start shielding his eyes. His body was too sore to move, bruises littered his torso and shins. He groaned as he turned over on the couch, hoping to go back to sleep, but his head pounded harder and harder. His fingers grazed the gash on his forehead, wincing at the slightest touch. Tyler got up to take an oxy, but his movement shifted and he made coffee instead. He also took two Advil, rubbing his temples to ease the pain.

His headache was subsiding, finally. He went to go check for the newspaper, which he usually tossed as hard as he could off the stairset that leads to his floor.

He couldn't keep living this way.

All of the choices he made had lead to nothing but darkness. Tyler could walk down a busy city street and surely one person would call an ambulance for him. He looked dead, he was sick, and a couple more months of this... surely he would take too many xanax on purpose.

He picked the newspaper up, neatly placed on his doormat-less stoop, and shut the door. This surely was a sight to be seen. The morning light nearly put him in a daze; the hazy apartment looked almost ethereal, sun beams shone through the blinds and onto the floor looked like fire. Dust specs were all too visible, but it added to the beauty. Tyler sat at the bar, newspaper in front of him and coffee next to the paper. He found a cigarette in his jeans pocket, that he hadn't the energy to take off previously, and flicked the lighter so gracefully, adding to the hazy beauty that was 8 in the morning.

Tyler flipped through the pages of this foreign object, finding the jobs section. House painter, line cook, dishwasher, gardener. These were the jobs that caught his attention, that he could do easily, that he didn't need to seduce a man for or even get to mourn over his life in Ohio. He called each place, and got an interview for the dishwasher and house painter.

He got the dishwashing job. He learned quickly, which his manager was glad for. Tyler had the job for 2 months before he found out that one of the line cooks sold weed. He withdrew from oxy in that time, which was rough, he would have to go out back and throw up every other hour. He was shaking, sweating, and all around looked like shit. The line cook smoked a joint with him out there, he hit it, once, twice, six times. He felt good the rest of his shift. Before Tyler knew it, he was better within a few weeks, all of the symptoms were gone and he was proud of himself. And he had a right. But, his shoebox money was running low and he was barely making anything doing dishes. On the third month of the job, he looked for another one. He got a job going door to door selling vacuums.

For once, he was busy, he had responsibilities, and still couldn't afford to leave a hell hole called Los Lunas.

He clocked in to his dishwashing job, and everything seemed to go wrong. He woke up late, didn't get to make himself coffee, barely had time to light a cigarette, and showed up 20 minutes late. He dropped an entire tray of clean dishes, all of which broke. His manager yelled at him. To add on, when he was ending his shift, he had to mop his area and left the water going to fill the mop bucket when he got distracted by a couple of cups someone left for him to wash. He flooded the back supply closet, which he had to clean. His manager called him into his office when he was going to clock out. Tyler was fired, gave his apron back, and hung his head on the way out to his car. He promised the line cook he'd still buy weed from him, at least.

He got a janitorial job at a high school in the evenings, where he could listen to music and clean up after teenagers that were only a few years younger than him. They sprung a drug test on him, which he failed. He was fired from being a janitor after just four weeks. The vacuum sales weren't going well, seeing as no one would open their door to a pale, sickly, 20-something year old. Tyler got frustrated after someone slammed the door in his face, so he pounded on their door again. A man opened the door and punched Tyler in the face. Tyler kicked a hole in their door. He was fired the next day.

He was without a job for a couple weeks before he got a call back from the diner he would pick up clients at previously. He was a waiter, and he was decent. He had the job for four months before he was caught smoking weed on his break out back. It felt like he's been through every job in this town. He found a couple more throwaways before the last time he was fired, he'd had enough. He could never do anything right, it seemed.

He found a house party the same night he was fired from the diner, did some coke, and met a nice boy. They flirted and took some shots before the boy's girlfriend pulled him away. Tyler sat back in the couch looking at them, a sudden sadness overcoming him. He couldn't tell if he missed her. It had been over a year at this point. He shook his head and grabbed a pill from the coffee table. Not knowing what it was, he took it anyway. The boy kept looking at him, but eventually Tyler's vision became something else. He fixated on the lights, and he tried so hard to focus on the boy, but everything kept wiggling. He blinked, once, twice, but nothing would stop moving.

Tyler popped a molly.

Tyler had never tried molly.

Tyler didn't know if he liked it.

The boy waltzed back to him, as if the only person there, held out his hand for Tyler's taking. Tyler tried hard to see his hand, but it looked almost prosthetic. He had a tattoo on his arm that was bouncing and dancing on his skin. Tyler instead brushed his fingers against his skin, a small 'whoa' escaping his lips. It was intricate, detailed, and the colors popped even in a dark room with party lights. The boy just chuckled and took his arm, leading him to the girl he was with.

She led him upstairs to a room, where the tattooed boy followed, and Tyler flopped on the bed. The room was moving.

Tyler, in fact, did not like this.

The next morning, Tyler woke up on his couch, 9 in the morning, not able to recall a single thing.


End file.
